Body Of Truth

by Deirdre Savoy

  “I will,” Jonathan said, but it wasn’t himself he was worried about.

  Seven

  Nobody came. Nadine Evans sat in the wheelchair provided for her at her grandson’s gravesite, surrounded by a small group of people, none of whom she knew. The man from the cemetery told her that they were folks who liked to show up at funerals, they didn’t care whose.

  Her heart heavy and cold in her chest like a stone, she wrung her hands in a futile gesture. For five years, she had scrimped and pinched pennies to buy this site for herself, not an underground plot but a space in an aboveground mausoleum in Woodlawn Cemetery.

  Some of the most famous people in the world were buried here. She didn’t really know who and didn’t really care. But she liked the idea of spending eternity next to senators and musicians, authors and composers. She never did have nothing in life. The least God could provide for her was a decent resting place.

  But now that spot was going for her grandson Wesley, the sweet baby the Lord and her wayward daughter had left for her to raise. Only a fool would think she’d been able to do right by that boy. Verna had come home, supposedly for an overdue visit, bringing her seven-year-old son with her. Until then, Nadine hadn’t known she had a grandchild, much less this tall, skinny stick of a boy with dark, knowing eyes.

  Verna left two days later, in the dead of night and alone. When Nadine awoke the next morning to find her daughter gone, she agonized about what to say to the boy. But he already knew. It hadn’t been the first time his mama had left him somewhere and cut out. “I don’t think she’s coming back this time,” he’d told her as matter of fact as if he told her it was supposed to rain. Then he sat down and ate the bowl of corn flakes she’d set out for him.

  She’d wanted so much for that boy, but what could she do for him? She was poor, alone, sick with the sugar and old age, sick from life. Knowing how his mother had done him, she never could bring herself to discipline the boy much or show him the back of her hand when he needed it. And the older and sicker she got, the more she relied on him. He was her little man who took care of everything. She never could abide his selling that junk on the streets, but what could she do about it? He’d told her, “I don’t sell to no kids, Granny. If grown folks want to give me their cash, I’m happy to take it.”

  “Messing with those people will get you killed,” she’d warned. It gave her no comfort to know she’d been right. She’d found no solace anywhere. Those old heifers in her building, even those that came to her supposedly expressing their condolences, couldn’t wait to inform her that Wesley had gotten no better than he deserved. It had been on her mind to ask them who the hell did they think kept him in business except their sons and daughters and probably their old men besides, but she’d held her tongue. Let them go on deluding themselves there wouldn’t be someone else out there tomorrow who wouldn’t have any compunctions about selling their babies anything they wanted.

  So she had taken the money they pushed into her hand as they hustled out her door, congratulating themselves on their beneficence to someone who deserved nothing. She’d mumbled her thanks through a throat clogged with emotion. Where had all these people been when their money could have done some good?

  She hadn’t voiced that sentiment, or any other that might make her appear ungrateful. She didn’t mind taking these peoples’ money whatever the circumstance. For another, she still had to pay for the casket, the flowers, the fee for a minister. She’d wanted the pastor from the church she’d attended, before her illness had robbed her of the chance to go, but he’d claimed to be busy. Instead, some stranger with hound dog jowls and a sour expression would say the last words anyone would speak for her grandson.

  She gazed at the man now as he approached. “We’ll start in a minute, Sister Evans.”

  She wondered what the man was waiting for, considering only her and a handful of strangers awaited whatever he had to say. Hearing a car door close behind her, she glanced over her shoulder. That cop Moretti or whatever his name was, had just gotten out of a black sedan. He sauntered toward her with the sort of swagger she expected from the man.

  Though she hadn’t expected any better, it galled her that the lone detective the police had sent to investigate her grandson’s murder couldn’t give a damn who’d shot Wesley or why. The whole city seemed to care about some blond bitch who probably stuck her lily white nose where it didn’t belong, but not one soul shared in her grief or her desire to see Wesley’s killer brought to justice.

  So, what was he doing here? Considering his disinterest in the case and disdainful expression on his face, it certainly couldn’t be to pay his respects. In fact, he didn’t approach her at all. He took up a spot to her left and behind her, apart from the small group. The man was up to something, but what?

  Before she had long to wonder about it, the minister took up a spot behind the bower and folded his hands in prayer.

  “Brothers and sisters,” he began, as if speaking to a multitude instead of a handful of people. “We have come together today to mourn the passing of another young brother cut down before he had a chance to . . .”

  Nadine shut her eyes and let the Reverend’s melodious voice wash over her like a river. The words didn’t matter, only their cadence and the rhythmic punctuation of amens and sounds of approval from those assembled.

  As the Reverend’s sermon ended, Nadine opened her eyes. She hadn’t felt the dampness on her cheeks until the man next to her, the man from the cemetery, offered her a handkerchief. She blotted the dampness from her cheeks and tried to sit straighter in the unfamiliar chair. The short service was over, and the few people assembled started to leave.

  “Nadine.”

  The sound of Dana’s voice brought her back into herself. Nadine blinked and focused on the girl’s face. She hadn’t noticed Dana’s arrival, but knowing Dana the little bit she did, she should have known she’d hang back rather than push herself to the forefront.

  She had to take back that earlier thought about no one but her caring about Wesley. She knew Dana had tried to talk some sense into the boy and had no better luck than she did. Nadine might be old and bedridden, but she heard just fine. Dana had sent her that handsome priest to help her. He’d been a godsend, relieving her of the burden of seeing to Wesley’s arrangements herself.

  The pair of them walked toward her now. “Hello, Nadine,” Dana said when they reached her. “How are you holding up?”

  “Jus’ fine. Though there is a hole in my heart today.”

  Seeing the look that came over Dana’s face—not quite disapproval, but close—Nadine supposed she’d laid the drama on too thick. It wasn’t a lie. Her heart lay in her chest like a dead thing knowing her boy was gone. But Dana didn’t hold with no theatrics. Many a time Nadine had tried to win her sympathy the way it worked with other nurses, play their heartstrings, but Dana wouldn’t have that. Sometimes she felt sorry for that brother of hers, as tough love seemed the only type Dana knew how to give.

  “Mrs. Evans,” Father Mike said, drawing her attention. He pressed an envelope into her hands. “The parish of St. Matthew’s extends its condolences, and so do I.”

  She looked at the envelope. In the corner was the school logo, a candle flame with the school motto written beneath it. A blank address label was pasted to the center, but even her old eyes could make out the single word underneath it: “Dana.”

  Nadine’s eyes flew to hers, but read no emotion there. Obviously whatever money was enclosed in this envelope had been intended for her, but she didn’t take it.

  “Do you need anything? A ride?”

  Nadine shook her head. “The people here will see me home.”

  “Take care of yourself, Nadine. I’ll see you when I get back to work.”

  Nadine nodded. She watched the pair until they got into a dark blue sedan and drove away.

  In the next moment, Nadine decided she really hated Detective Moretti. He sidled up to her and nodded in the direction Dana had drive
n off. Without preamble he said, “I’d like to ask you a few questions about that woman who was just here, Dana Molloy.”

  “What about her,” Nadine answered, determined not to tell the man one damn thing.

  Seated in the car as Father Mike drove toward Westchester, Dana stared out the window trying to quiet her thoughts. Wesley’s funeral had affected her profoundly, and she wasn’t sure why. To top it off, she couldn’t put a name to the emotion that churned her stomach and put her nerves on end.

  In the periphery of her vision she noticed Father Mike sneaking another glance at her. He might be curious about her silence, but she doubted that was the reason for his attention. She sighed. “If you have something to say, Father, why don’t you say it?”

  “It’s a question, really. Why wouldn’t you take the money? It’s not because you’re not Catholic is it?”

  He’d been surprised this morning when he tried to press the envelope in her hands and she refused to accept it. He hadn’t questioned her about it, and she’d figured that was the end of it. She should have known better than that. Priests made their stock in trade out of confessions.

  “I didn’t take it because, to me, it’s blood money. Someone died for that money. I don’t want any part of it.”

  “That money was collected on your behalf,” Father Mike said in a patient voice. “You were injured. You missed work.”

  “I was on vacation. I’ve got plenty of time accumulated if I need to take it. I don’t need money.”

  Father Mike slid her a droll look. “Don’t tell me that anyone with a child about to start college doesn’t need money.”

  She groaned. He had her there. “Okay, so the money could have come in handy. I’m sure Nadine needs it more than I do.”

  He said nothing for a while, leaving her to hope that was the end of the discussion. They were nearing the point on the Major Deegan where they would veer off onto the Cross County Parkway. They would reach her house in fifteen minutes if the traffic didn’t snag.

  “Then why are you so angry?”

  Anger. She hadn’t considered that possibility when she was trying to decipher her feelings. She supposed that fit, though she couldn’t say what about the day had inspired it. She rarely allowed herself the luxury of that emotion. Annoyance, yes, irritation, maybe, but never the full breadth of the deeper emotion. There was a well of anger in her, deep and murky, and she didn’t care to analyze who it was directed at. Letting even a little of it out was like uncorking a dam that she feared she could not recap.

  She inhaled, fighting to regroup, to quell the emotions churning inside her. “She wanted me to feel sorry for her. Nadine actually wanted me to feel sorry for Wesley dying the way he did. And I do. I really do, but she didn’t have to be in the position she was in. Her own self-indulgence led her to a point where she couldn’t take care of him properly.

  “And don’t believe I hold Wesley blameless in this. He was seventeen. He made his own choice. There were hundreds of other ways he could have helped support his grandmother, if that’s what he wanted to do. But there’s this mentality, like ‘I can’t demean myself by getting an honest job in McDonalds, but I can knock your mama over the head and steal her few pennies or I can sell your child crack.’ That’s the way to earn your props.”

  “And that’s the way of the world, Dana. Some people will always seek the easy way out. You know that.”

  She did and she hated it. “You know, Father, you hear so much about the tyranny of the strong. The strong preying on the weak. What about the tyranny of the weak, Father? That’s much worse. What about those people who can but will not rise up to help themselves? I see it all the time, Father. Clients who absolutely refuse to do what they need for their own well-being. And what kind of louse must you be to refuse them?”

  A voice droned in her head, but it didn’t belong to Nadine or any of her other clients. It belonged to her mother. “Dana, I can’t do it . . . Dana, I need you to help me . . . Dana . . . Dana . . . Dana . . .” Her mother had called on her so often the sound of her own name had sickened her. Long before her mother had been debilitated enough to require constant care she’d relied on Dana for everything. Dana had never begrudged her mother her illness; she couldn’t help that. But she did begrudge her mother’s helplessness, her refusal to do as much as she could for herself.

  Thank God, she’d been able to spare Tim from bearing the brunt of their mother’s demands. On top of that, she’d raised him to be self-sufficient. When he went off to college, he wouldn’t have to wait on anyone to feed him or pick up after him. He’d be able to survive without having to depend on anyone else, though with his looks and easy-going temperament, he’d probably have some girl doing his laundry within a week.

  That thought brightened her a little, enough to drag her outside herself. “I’m sorry, Father. I didn’t mean to unload on you.”

  He offered her a kindly smile. “I keep telling you that’s what I’m here for. Feeling better?”

  She nodded. “Maybe I’m just a little burned out. Maybe I just really, really needed that vacation.”

  “Maybe you just needed someone to talk to.”

  Maybe, but she wasn’t sure she was ready to admit that yet. Joanna had accused her of acting like she didn’t need anybody, and Dana couldn’t deny it. She didn’t want to need anybody, not to the point where she became one of those women like Nadine and her mother, simultaneously victim and predator. She knew that was one of the things she needed to work on in herself, but hadn’t gotten very far with it. But she had to acknowledge that she did feel better having spoken aloud the feelings she’d bottled up inside for so long. “Thanks for listening, Father.”

  “Anytime. But you have to promise to do something for me.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Stop calling me ‘Father.’ The way you say it makes me sound as if I’ve been dead long enough to be canonized.”

  For the first time that day, she laughed. “What should I call you then?”

  “Just Mike will do.”

  “Okay, Just Mike,” she said and heard him chuckle. She settled back against her seat, looking out her window at the passing scenery while she contemplated her growing friendship with a priest.

  On the ride back to the city, Jonathan got a call from Ferguson in the tech department letting him know they’d broken the password on Amanda Pierce’s computer. He damn sure hoped there was something pertinent on it or on the numerous CDs they’d culled from her apartment, as their one good lead had bitten the dust that morning.

  Ferguson, the chief tech, was waiting for them when he and Mari arrived. The other techs called him Porcupine because he had a habit of running his hand through his short black hair in a way that made it stand on end. He motioned for them to take seats next to his work station.

  “What have you got?” Jonathan asked.

  “I got plenty, but you’ll have to figure out what it all means.”

  “That’s why they pay us the big salaries,” Mari said.

  “Yeah, right.” Ferguson pressed a few keys on the computer. One thing I’ll say for this lady, she has a devious mind. Wanna know what her password was?”

  If Jonathan had bothered to give an answer, it would have been, ‘Not particularly.’ But Ferguson seemed intent on dazzling them with his brilliance, or maybe it was only Mari he wanted to impress, as his gaze rested solely on her.

  “Sure.”

  “Archipelago. A body of land surrounded by water on three sides. You know, the Bronx is the only borough that isn’t an island. It’s an archipelago.”

  Jonathan slid a glance at Mari, who looked back with a blank stare. For want of anything better, Jonathan said, “Okay.”

  “Well,” Ferguson ran his hand through his hair. “Since you wanted to know what she’d been working on, I focused on the last files she started. Most of it is on one CD, a lot of information about someone named Brendan Malone, a priest who died in nineteen eighty something.”


  Jonathan remembered seeing something about the man in the files they’d taken from Pierce’s office. But those clippings had already yellowed with age, leading him to believe that they bore no relation to her current work.

  “Malone had presided over a small church in the 140s,” Ferguson continued. “St. Jude’s.”

  Jonathan touched the medal that rested against his collarbone. His sister had given it to him the day he graduated from the academy. St. Jude—the patron saint of cops and lost causes, which were often one and the same thing.

  “What did Pierce want with him? Another priest pedophile?”

  “Yeah, that was my first thought,” Ferguson said. “But if that was her angle I don’t see any evidence of it. Mostly it seems to have something to do with some housing development. That’s the weird part. He seemed to have some sort of financial involvement. Aren’t priests supposed to take a vow of poverty?”

  “Them and every other working stiff in the city,” Mari shot back.

  “Well, that’s as far as I got.” He reached under his console. “I took the liberty of printing out most of this stuff for you. I know how much you detectives like paper.”

  Mari took the folder from him. “Gee, thanks, Fergie.”

  “Anytime.”

  “Cultivating a fan club?” Jonathan teased as they walked away.

  “What else have I got to do with myself?” They stopped at the elevators. Mari pulled open the file. A copy of the CD lay on top of the sheaf of papers. “Here’s what I don’t get. Pierce is used to going after the Sinatras of the world, cultural icons. What was she doing slumming with the boys from the barrio, pedophile or no?”

  “I guess that’s what we’re about to find out.” The cell phone clipped to his belt rumbled. Jonathan checked the readout, not entirely surprised to see his brother Adam’s number. He accepted the call and brought the phone to his ear. “What’s up?”

  “Zack just called me. Ray took Joanna to the hospital. She’s in labor.”